


Father don't you recognize your own kin?

by tehhumi



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21566683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehhumi/pseuds/tehhumi
Summary: Maglor and Maedhros try to fix the first age.They don't particularly want to, but they want to watch everyone die again less.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 7
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

There is an empty rocky cliff on a starlit beach.

Suddenly, two figures appear on it. One tall, armored, holding a sword in his left hand. The other shorter, clad in a traveling cloak, two swords in his hands and a lyre on his back.

“Maglor?”

“Maedhros?!”

“What happened to your armor?”

“I sold it. How did you get here? And where are we for that matter?”

“I don’t know. I’m surprised you’re here too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hoped you’d survive.”

“Survive?” Maglor yells, “I did survive. For seventeen hundred years without you, I survived.”

“Why are you mad at me?”

“You abandoned me! You wanted to attack the camp of the Valar, so we did. Then you left me to deal with the consequences!”

“That’s not it! I’m crippled and useless, I can’t even hold a sword. I will only slow you down.”

“So you tried to do the noble thing and leave me to sort out the practicalities on my own, _again_.”

“There’s nothing stopping you from following if life is so terrible!”

“Nothing except our people who need a leader, or my sons who wanted to know what became of us, of course! Anyway, you don’t look that bad, you’re moving your left arm quite freely.”

Maedhros blinks. “I suppose I am.” He looks at his palm. There’s a faint mark, as if he held the Silmaril for only a second. “My left hand seems better, but my right hand is still missing. What about you? Any injuries miraculously healed?”

“Come to think of it, I was rather sliced up by the end. Hard to stay completely whole when being killed by orcs, you know. My left hand is still burned from the Silmaril, though.”

“What did you do with yours then, if you don’t still have it?”

“Threw it into the sea. I hoped I could throw away the Oath with it.”

“Could you?”

“No. Every few years I sail out and search for it.”

“Ah.”

“How have the others been coping with being dead?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve had a thousand years to get used to it, I’m new here.”

“I believe you that you outlived me, but I remember nothing between dying and seeing you.”

“Is that what the Oath meant, that none of us should reach Mandos until we all did? Where then are our brothers?”

“We should search for them.”

After a few hours, the familiarity becomes difficult to avoid. This is the bay of Losgar, which was taken by the Sea before either of their deaths. And there is absolutely no one else around.

Maglor says, “Shall we retell all our tale? Have we been sent back to reweave the strands of Vaire’s tapestries?”

“We can’t be sure if this is truly the past, not just another bay that looks similar. I do not see Eärendil’s star, nor the sun or moon; one of them ought to rise soon enough.”

Neither asks aloud why their brothers aren’t here. The Void was called on those who fail, after all.

Hours pass and eventually the stars return to the places they had been when Maedhros and Maglor arrived.

“So we’re before the rising of the Sun. It’s probably too much to hope that we are also here before the Darkening,” Maedhros says, beginning to pace along the cliff side.

“We might be. If one of us had learned how to build boats sometime in the last six centuries, we could warn everyone about Melkor, and the Oath, and perhaps avert our Doom.”

“Perhaps we could. But we did not, and I don’t believe Cirdan has developed ships stout enough to cross the Western Sea yet. We will have to change things on this shore, starting with preserving the swan-ships.”

“That would prevent much suffering for Nolofinwe’s people and tension between the two groups. But to do so, we must act against our father – the High King of the Noldor.”

“The last king _I_ pledged allegiance too was High King Fingon.”

“And is that all you pledged to him?”

Maedhros stills. “What are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not _accusing_ you of anything, I spent two decades in the same fortress as you and you aren’t nearly as subtle as you think. Whether or not you’re married is relevant to whatever we plan to do next. My wife left me after the Oath, saying she married a singer, not a killer. I have not yet tried to reach her, though I was unable to the first time. I do not think she can find me, and she is unlikely to try.”

Maedhros says softly, “I had thought she was with you until Alqualondë; you said nothing at the time.”

“You were trying to calm Father down; I didn’t want to bother you. Now tell me, do we have to worry about your marriage bond revealing us?”

Maedhros sighs and looks into the distance. “No. We had planned to marry after the Fifth Battle, the High King and the general who won the war for him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was years ago, and hardly the worst part of the Nirnaeth. What do you mean by reveal us?”

“Sorry, it’s a force of habit. I haven’t traveled anywhere I would be recognized, or under my own name, since your death; there’s little welcome for the last son of Feanor.”

“It’s a good idea though, at least until we know more about why we’re here. Father may take advice better from strangers than his sons usurping his authority. What name have you used?”

“Father does not take directions well from anyone. But I have gone by Rainon; Rainar will be close enough for me to recognize.”

“Very poetic.”

“Thank you. And yourself?”

“I’ll use an epessë, I had enough of them by the end. Hyarmo will do.”

“From the Sindarin as well? Should be obvious enough to explain I suppose.”

“From the Black Speech.”

“And you call me dramatic.”

And so Hyarmo and Rainon settle in to wait, and to figure out how to save their family and their people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Rainon_ comes from the Sindarin _rain_ (wander); a direct Quenya translation would be _Ranir_. However, _Rainon_ sounds similar to _Raenon_ , from _raen_ ( _raina_ in Quenya), which means both “netted” and “gracious” – Maglor has a reputation as the kind, gentle one, but he’s still caught in the Oath. _Raenon_ translates to _Rainar_.
> 
>  _Hyarmo_ comes from the Quenya word _hyar_ , which commonly means “left (the direction)” but more obscurely means “hew.” Probably the politest name Maedhros got among elves in the First Age was ‘left handed’ ( _Hairdir_ in Sindarin, or _Hyarmo_ in Quenya, would be “Lefty”). Orcs came up with Beater and Biter for the swords Glamdring and Orcrist; naming a feared enemy “Hewer” fits their style. Most people would not consider something that orcs call them to be a proper epessë, nor would they call themselves something so violent.


	2. Chapter 2

_'None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!'_

Maitimo looks at his father, the mad gleam in his eye and the torch in his hand, and sees no path to persuade him. “I will have no part in this.” Maitimo drops his torch on the sand.

Just then, a stranger approaches from around a bend in the inlet. “To burn the ships would be greatest folly.” At these words, a song springs from the hills, and a downpour begins. In moments, every single torch is out.

However, the fiery spirit of Fëanáro is not so easily quenched. “What right have you to order me?”

The stranger does not appear phased by an armored elf waving a sword at him. “None. But I have more knowledge of this land, and the enemy’s capabilities, than you do. I am called Hyarmo. I know that Melkor’s forces are very strong, and the more warriors you have to oppose him the better.”

“They would only slow me down. I would rather have one fighter loyal to me to than five who are reluctant.”

“I would rather have six. Defeating Melkor will be the work of centuries, not days. Regardless, the rain will not stop until the boats cross again.”

“You dare to threaten me?”

“I arrive here with power beyond yours and use it to save your son’s life, and you treat me with such hostility!”

“What do you mean, save my son’s life?”

“Only one of the twins is on the shore. Ambarto would have burned, oh Spirit of Fire.”

Fëanáro looks around. “Maitimo, gather your brothers.”

Maitimo does not want to leave such a tense situation—it seems eerily reminiscent of Olwe refusing the ships—but he goes. He returns after a few minutes, in which the stranger has not moved, but everyone’s eyes have adjusted to the lack of torchlight.

Maitimo says softly, “Ambarto is not on shore. I have people checking the ships now.”

Fëanáro wheels on the stranger. “How did you know?”

Hyarmo replies calmly, “I know of the royal family of Tirion, and I can count. He was not with the rest, and none of your company has gone inland yet.”

Maitimo interjects, “Thank you for saving my brother’s life.”

“You’re welcome. Now, back to my point, you really do need a larger army to properly challenge Melkor.”

Fëanáro says, “I have a brave army, and larger than has ever been before.”

“Lager than any before among eves. Angband has twenty times as many orcs, and worse things besides.”

“I have seen Morgoth face to face, he does not frighten me. Nor does a spider, however massive.”

“The spider has left, but he has other servants. Maiar that can take the forms of bats or wolves, greater than any natural creature. And the Valaraukar, maiar of flame and shadow. If they can be slain, I do not know how, and they are capable of hiding themselves with darkness despite being nearly twenty feet tall. They guard the gates of Angband.”

“If he is scared enough of me to place guards on his gates, my army is surely strong enough.”

“He is not scared, no more than someone who latches their windows is scared of gnats. If you want to strike a meaningful blow, you need more soldiers and a better plan.”

“And what plan do you have that is so much better?”

“None specifically at the moment. But those who lose their lives in a futile rush at Angband will not be able to lend their talents to devising one.”

“If it’s a matter of intelligent planning, my half-brother will be even less useful.”

“He will be able to provide a bulwark for you to live behind at the very least.”

“And why would I send you, a stranger, to get him? What right have you to these ships, which we obtained at great pain?”

“I saved Prince Ambarto’s life. Do you mean to say the life of a prince of the Noldor is worth less than a craft of the Teleri?”

“It is poorly done to demand a reward only after a deed is complete, and so trick someone into an agreement.”

“If you think you got the worse end of the bargain, say so. But you have all your family, and a fleet in which to explore the coast. I ask only for one ship.”

“Take a ship then, if you consider the dregs of the barrel worth retrieving.”

Hyarmo nodded. “It’s settled. My brother and I will sail one ship to Araman, and bring with us on our return some of Nolofinwe’s company. They will likely have some in their number willing and capable of ferrying the rest across.”

“And what would tell my half-brother when you reach him?”

“That you were focused on battle against Melkor, and could spare none to return for them, but lent me the ship to do so.”

Maitimo steps in before his father can insult the only person they’ve met on this shore, who has a sword and armor as good as their own and stands like he knows how to use them. “That sounds quite reasonable. You mention your brother? So far you are the only one we have seen on these shores.”

“My brother is out of the habit of conversation with strangers, and remained at our camp. We are not the only people in these lands though,” Hyarmo says. “There are elves in a coastal city to the south, led by one Cirdan the shipwright, who are besieged by orcs. The Kingdom of Doriath is about three hundred miles inland; it is ruled by King Elu Thingol, known long ago as Elwe. King Elu in fact considers himself Lord of all Beleriand—this continent to the far eastern mountains—and Cirdan owes him direct allegiance. There are various smaller groups as well.”

“What can you tell us about those—are any of them in particular danger, or particularly likely to aid us?”

“The king of the Nandor died in battle mere days ago. They also follow Thingol, though they keep less close contact. There are Avarin groups in the eastern mountains and the northern plains. There also Dwarves—the people of Aule, great craftsmen. They have underground cities in the mountains, and the plains to the east, as well as some dwelling in court of King Thingol. I am not from these shores though; you would be better asking a Sinda. Now, I should sail to meet your kinsfolk before they believe themselves abandoned.” He calls back towards the hills, “Rainar, I have a ship for us!”

At that the music—and the rain—stops. An elf comes from the cliffs, hooded against the weather, not looking up at the Noldorin royalty. The two strangers set off to retrieve the other Noldor—at least hopefully, and not angry Teleri or fell creatures.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Rainon_ comes from the Sindarin _rain_ (wander); a direct Quenya translation would be _Ranir_. However, _Rainon_ sounds similar to _Raenon_ , from _raen_ ( _raina_ in Quenya), which means both “netted” and “gracious” – Maglor has a reputation as the kind, gentle one, but he’s still caught in the Oath. _Raenon_ translates to _Rainar_.
> 
>  _Hyarmo_ comes from the Quenya word _hyar_ , which commonly means “left (the direction)” but more obscurely means “hew.” Probably the politest name Maedhros got among elves in the First Age was ‘left handed’ ( _Hairdir_ in Sindarin, or _Hyarmo_ in Quenya, would be “Lefty”). Orcs came up with Beater and Biter for the swords Glamdring and Orcrist; naming a feared enemy “Hewer” fits their style. Most people would not consider something that orcs call them to be a proper epessë, nor would they call themselves something so violent.


End file.
